


we've got to hold on to what we've got (it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not)

by pieckaboo



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Biology teacher Rebecca Chambers, Buddy Cops Chris and Jill, But it's kinda justified, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Little League Coach Carlos Oliveira, Minor Violence, Moral Ambiguity, One Shot, Snippets, Venus Flytraps, basically chris and jill's excellent adventure minus the time travelling, but i also just needed the excuse to write my faves smooching lmao, everyone's a little thirsty in this fic, fic logic, minor cleon because c'mon it's me, obligatory bar scene, or that's up to you i guess, there's a lot of themes i'm purposely leaving open to interpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieckaboo/pseuds/pieckaboo
Summary: After they're given a three-week suspension from the Raccoon City Police Department, Chris and Jill are forced into community service.Chris feels a little out of his element helping a high school Biology teacher prepare for the annual science fair, while Jill returns to her softball roots as an assistant little league coach.There are worse ways to be punished.
Relationships: Carlos Oliveira/Jill Valentine, Chris Redfield & Jill Valentine, Rebecca Chambers/Chris Redfield
Comments: 7
Kudos: 82





	we've got to hold on to what we've got (it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not)

**Author's Note:**

> (hi, yes, i am still working on Rejoins-moi, i just needed to get this one outta my system!) :')
> 
> I've been working on this fic for the past couple months, but the quarantine's really what got me to finish it. I honestly didn't know where to go after the first three paragraphs lol but inspiration just kinda struck, i guess.  
> I rarely write one-shots *this* long, and i thought about dividing it into two chapters, but that seemed kinda redundant, like it might mess with the flow or smth.  
> This might seem a little disjointed and kinda all over the place but oh well. I had fun! Plus, the Chris/Rebecca tag is depressingly empty, sooooooooooo i needed to contribute somehow. (Seriously, why is chambersfield so underrated?????)  
> Title comes from Livin' on a Prayer - Bon Jovi (because i suck at titles and i love '80s rock)
> 
> Let me know what you think! :)

It’s never a good thing when you’re called into Chief Irons’ office.

Except _called_ isn’t entirely accurate. Forced is more like it.

After an arrest gone bad, Officers Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine had been forced into the Police Chief’s office – and the repercussions proceeded from there with a fatalistic kind of inevitability.

“What the hell were you two thinking?!” The question, unfortunately, is far from rare.

Chris and Jill exchange looks, as if strategizing their escape through duplicitous eye contact alone.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Chris begins after clearing his throat, “We had no other choice.”

“Bullshit!” Irons roars, arms raised in exaggerated fury. “You irresponsible morons! You oughtta know better!”

“Sir,” Chris tries again, but he’s cut off.

“That’s enough from you, Redfield!” Irons shouts, pointing his finger accusingly toward Jill. “And you, Miss Valentine. Anything to say for yourself? You’ve been awfully quiet this whole time. Care to explain what exactly compelled you to use excessive force on an unarmed suspect?”

“Excessive force?” Jill scoffs, eyes glaring. “You know what? Fine. If knocking some asshole’s teeth out for punching my partner in the face, making obscene gestures, and then threatening to burn an entire litter of helpless puppies if we don’t let him go is considered ‘excessive force,’ then so be it. I don’t regret what went down in that godforsaken house.”

“He was gonna kill all those pups,” Chris intervenes, an attempt at rationalization. “We had to stop him. And when he tried to put his hands on Jill, I just… lost it.”

“Save the damsel in distress nonsense for those shitty Lifetime specials,” Irons rebuffs. “Seeing as how Valentine sent the suspect to the hospital, I think it would behoove one to assume she’s more than capable of handling herself.”

“Damn right,” Jill mutters under her breath.

“Or should I say, Miss Valentine, that you’re reckless and, frankly, unfit to be on this force entirely?” Irons growls, slamming his fists on the mahogany desk between them. “This isn’t the first time you two have tested the boundaries of the law, nor the limits of my patience. It’s about time you suffered real consequences!”

“For acting in self-defense?” Jill counters. “For saving lives?”

“What _lives_?! You know how many animals die every day?!”

Jill gasps, disgusted. Chris clenches his jaw, holding back a slew of insults for fear of losing his job.

“It was a simple assignment,” Irons drones on. “You two had the arrest warrant. The man’s wanted for tax fraud and suspected of running several dogfighting events. So what does that mean? Hmmm? You go make the goddamn arrest! Take him into custody! That does _not_ give you imbeciles the right to beat him to a bloody pulp!”

“He punched Chris in the face!” Jill contends. “And he showed no indication of stopping there! Jesus, it’s not like I shot the man.”

“That’s my point, Valentine,” Irons hisses. “Your recklessness only seems to escalate as the days go by. Soon, you and Redfield will be running around like a couple of nitwits, shooting anything that moves! Why do we think we have rules? Does following protocol mean anything to you? Is that why you joined the force? To play vigilante? Or were you just unfit for any other profession after your stint in the military?”

“That’s uncalled for,” Chris says, anger fueling his words. “Jill’s the best officer in the entire precinct. Ask our superiors.”

Jill quickly interrupts, warning Chris to lay off with a small nudge from her elbow.

“I know you mean well, Chris, but I can speak for myself.” She levels her gaze with Irons, her features twisting in frustration. “Look, Chief, we’re just arguing around in circles at this point. So what now?”

Irons slams his fists again, his mind cycling through just about every curse word known to man. After a long uncomfortable stretch of silence, he expels a deep guttural sigh and facepalms himself, nursing his temples at the onset of a massive headache.

“I oughtta have you turn in your badges,” he grumbles. “But for as much as I hate to admit it, the force needs you.” The words come out with great difficulty, like he’s choking on razors.

Jill’s already bored with this conversation, and Chris gives her a look that practically screams _‘Jill, please…’_

“Still, there must be consequences,” Irons insists. “No getting off the hook this time. You’re both to be suspended for three weeks. Without pay. Effective immediately.” He snaps his fingers, to which Jill and Chris surrender their weapons.

“That all?” Jill asks, thoughts wandering to all the shows on Netflix she’ll be able to catch up on with her newly acquired free time.

“No,” Irons replies. “I’ve rescheduled your psych evals for tomorrow morning. The department counselor has also recommended weekly anger management sessions for the next six months, as well as community service for the duration of your suspension.”

“Anger management?” Jill repeats.

“Community service?” is the part Chris can’t get over. “What kind of community service?”

“That I’ll leave up to you,” Irons replies. “So long as it’s approved by your superiors.”

“But, sir, Jill and I have a mountain of paperwork to review this afternoon,” Chris says, tone clipped. “We’ve been assigned to investigate the Moon's Donuts case.”

“It’ll just have to wait for you to get back,” Irons says dismissively. “Besides, I’ve already informed your superiors of your suspension so it’s highly likely that case will get reassigned.”

Chris swallows down an entire dictionary of expletives. “Sir, if I may-”

“No, Redfield. You may _not_. No get the hell out of my office. You two are dismissed.”

* * *

Chris is drunk off his ass and going broke at a retro arcade less than an hour later.

He hasn’t been to an arcade since he was fifteen. The last time he played Pac-Man he and Claire had impulsively cut class together because her birthday fell on a school day and _who the hell wants to go to school on their own goddamn birthday?_

8-bit music streams from the speakers as he aggressively feeds more quarters into the coin slot, mumbling absurdities to himself.

He’s wrestling with the joystick when he feels Jill’s hands squeeze his shoulders.

“Wow, you’re terrible,” she says, gesturing at the screen. “Go for the fruit.”

Pac-Man gets devoured by a ghost and Chris groans, punching the console as the words ‘ _game over_ ’ flash before him.

“I can’t do this, Jill,” he finally says, speech slurred.

“It’s all right.” Jill shrugs. “Let me have a try.”

Chris doesn’t budge, and shakes his head. “No, I mean…” He sighs, and turns to face her. “I can’t play civvy for three weeks. I’m a cop. It’s all I know.”

Jill pats him on the back as a means of encouragement. “It’ll go by fast,” she assures. “We’ve certainly been through much worse.”

But her attempts to ease his concerns fall on deaf ears.

By midnight, Chris is passed out on her couch while she channel-surfs through the horrors of late-night TV.

Her mindless browsing turns up a news clip and she instantly recognizes the scene, feeling the color drain from her face.

_“Two officers have been suspended following the arrest of a local animal breeder. Thirty-three-year-old Ben Foreman claims he was assaulted by Officers Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine in his home Tuesday night. He also says he plans on pressing charges and suing the Raccoon City Police Department.”_

Jill turns the TV off.

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake!”

* * *

“Well I probably failed that eval,” Jill announces as she strolls into the reception area of the precinct.

Chris falls in step with her as they head for the parking garage, not quite as dissatisfied.

“It’s because you’re too honest,” he tells her, nonchalant. He holds up a few pamphlets. Waves them in front of her face. “Here, these oughtta distract you.”

“What’s all that?” Jill asks, eyes perusing their content with only halfhearted interest.

“The shrink gave ‘em to me,” Chris replies. “Some potential community service gigs.”

Jill reaches into the stack, picking one at random. “Volunteer dog-walker. Might be interesting. What else you got there?”

“Let’s see,” Chris says, flipping through their options. “The senior center needs volunteers for bingo nights. The community pool could use a couple lifeguards. Local soup kitchen needs help preparing meals for the homeless.”

“Hmmm, decisions, decisions,” Jill drawls, tapping her chin in thought. “This one seems interesting… Parks and rec. Assistant coach wanted for little league team.” She tilts her head, considering. “I was a softball kid, so I have experience in the sport.”

“I was gonna pick that one,” Chris says, like she should have known. “I’m the best hitter on the force. My back still hurts from carrying the team at last year’s charity baseball game against the fire department. I should take that one.”

Jill waves him off. “If memory serves, _I_ hit the game-winning homerun last year so I earned this. Choose something else.”

“I bought you donuts last week.”

“I let you crash on my couch last night. And the night before that!”

“I took you to see that stupid Tom Cruise movie.”

“You said you wanted to see it! And I bought the popcorn so that makes us even.”

“I watered your houseplants when you were out of town visiting your dad.”

“I picked up Claire from the airport when you had to stay late at the precinct.”

“I got you that fancy espresso machine you wanted for your birthday.”

“I bought you that guitar you cherish so much.”

“I got punched in the face for you.”

“I’ve taken a _bullet_ for you.”

Chris freezes, too stunned to speak.

Fuck. It’s over. He can’t top that.

“Fine,” he groans, sifting through the remaining flyers. He shuffles them like they’re a deck of cards and closes his eyes. “Grab one,” he instructs, holding them towards Jill. “Whichever one you choose, that’s what I’ll go with.”

“Okay,” Jill agrees. She waits until he’s done shuffling and then reaches for the smallest flyer in the bunch. “Read it and weep.”

Chris opens his eyes and accepts his fate. “Oh god,” he mutters, less than thrilled. “Local high school science fair.” Beats picking up trash on the side of the road. “Inquire within, or call school principal.”

“Hey that’s not so bad,” Jill says. “Wasn’t that your best subject in school anyway?”

Chris stares at her, but his eyes are empty. “Not by a long shot.”

“I know.” Jill chuckles. “That was the joke.”

* * *

Being suspended means they have time to check out that Mediterranean restaurant they’ve heard so much about.

“I called the school principal the other day,” Chris says over a plate of rice pilaf and chicken shawarma. “He wants me to meet the biology teacher. _Something…_ _Chambers_? Forgot her name. Anyway, I guess she’s also the coordinator for the school’s science fair.”

Jill absently stirs around her veggies with a cheap plastic fork, pondering. Adjusting to civilian life is proving to be rather irksome. She’s bored out of her skull.

“Have you called that little league coach yet?” Chris pries, offering her a bite of his shawarma. She shakes her head.

“No thanks,” she says. “Yeah, I called him this morning. I’m heading to the rec fields after this to meet him face to face.”

“Want me to tag along?” Chris asks.

Jill quirks a brow. “Normally, I’d say sure, whatever. But you need to find something else to do, Chris. We can’t be so… co-dependent.”

Chris frowns, like he’s been betrayed. “What do you mean by that? We’ve been partners for four years.”

“I know, I know.” Jill mentally backpedals, a tad guilt-ridden. “But maybe having some time apart will be good for us. Time apart from work and time apart from each other. That’s what the therapist advised.”

Chris rolls his eyes and laughs. “You actually listen to all that psychobabble? Jill, you know those psych evals are all bullshit. They only do ‘em because some officers get a little shaken up after getting shot at. But we signed up for this! We know what we’re getting ourselves into and we’re always prepared for it.”

“Then how come we refuse to work with anyone else?” Jill questions. “And why is it that we’re so turned off by the idea of interacting with civilians? They’re the reason we joined the force in the first place.” She rakes her hand through her hair, her nerves completely dismantled. “Shit. Shouldn’t we be relieved that for once we won’t have to deal with dangerous criminals?”

Chris has to think it over, much to Jill’s chagrin.

But he relents… eventually.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “You’re right.”

“Always am.”

* * *

No, Jill is in fact not always right.

Prior to heading off for the ball fields, she’d assumed this community service stint would be fairly easy and right up her alley.

Until she stood face to face with Carlos Oliveira.

Then she realized she might be fucked – and not the good kind of fucked.

“You must be Jill,” he greets, unsure whether to go for a handshake or a fist bump. He does neither, and nervously adjusts his baseball cap, turning it backwards.

Jill almost laughs, but she spares him. “I came prepared,” she says, holding up her baseball mitt. “Maybe I can meet the team today.”

Carlos blinks in surprise. “They won’t be here for another hour. I just thought I’d show you around and tell you what to expect before you committed to anything.”

“I know what to expect,” Jill says, confident. “I grew up playing softball.”

“Is that so?” Carlos smirks, folding his arms across his chest. “Wanna show me what you remember?”

Jill wants to pounce on him – for that smirk _and_ for looking so aggravatingly hot in a flimsy muscle shirt, flaunting his tanned physique. He’s gotta be breaking some law, she thinks. Out here looking like _that_. Fucking fuck, if being fine as hell was a crime, she’d whip out her handcuffs and arrest him on the spot.

“Is that a challenge?” she scoffs, inner thirst repressed.

“Maybe,” Carlos drawls, reaching into the Nike duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He pulls out his own glove and a raggedy-looking baseball. “I wanna see what that arm’s capable of.”

* * *

Chris vowed that once he graduated high school, he’d never go back. No way. Fuck that.

Yet here is, standing in the middle of Raccoon City High School’s gymnasium.

He feels like he’s aged ten years.

“Ah, Mr. Redfield!” The school principal hurries over, his portly body jiggling with every hasty step forward. “I’m sorry! I completely forgot to call you. I had a mix-up with Miss Chambers over where you two were to meet. You’ll actually be in her classroom today. Now, please, if you’ll just follow me.”

“Not a problem,” Chris replies, although he’s a bit peeved for having waited in the gym for twenty minutes, wasting away like a senile old man.

The biology classroom welcomes him with the horrid stench of decaying flesh. A pig fetus, dissected beyond all that is good and holy, lays flat out in the open, swimming in a container of murky fluid.

“Oh yikes! I’m so sorry! Let me clean some of this mess up! I’m so so so so sorry!” A young woman, who looks like she could be a student herself, rushes in sporting a grimy lab coat and goggles, quickly clearing the space of cadavers and her students’ previous butchering.

The stench, however, lingers.

“Well, I’ll leave you both to it,” the principal says, excusing himself after introductions (awkward as they are) have been made.

Chris has no clue where to begin. His feet feel as heavy as cinder blocks and his eyes dart about his surroundings like a lab animal turned loose into the wild. It’s practically a culture shock.

“Interesting setup you have here, Miss Chambers,” is all his confusion will permit. He makes eye contact with the plastic skeleton hanging from the ceiling and shudders.

“Rebecca’s fine. Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t offer a better welcome. I’ve been busy lately.” An understatement. “But I’m glad you’re here to help out. The science fair’s next weekend and there’s much to be done.”

“Right,” Chris mumbles, nodding along. “So… what do you need from me? How can I assist?”

Rebecca shimmies out of her lab coat and takes off her goggles, finally revealing the stunning work of art beneath.

Chris blinks a few times as if to process, silently admiring the sight before him. She’s the best of both worlds. Beauty _and_ brains.

“Let’s see,” Rebecca hums, oblivious to his gawking as she peers about the room, thinking of ways he can be useful. “Are you familiar with Venus flytraps?”

Chris snaps out of his reverie, though he’s not a complete lost cause. “Kinda,” he replies. “What about ‘em?”

Rebecca promptly introduces him to the class pet. “This is Vera the Venus flytrap. It’s her feeding time. Can you take care of that while I grade papers?”

After watching Vera lure in an unsuspecting fly, Chris moseys over to Rebecca’s desk and clasps his hands together. “She’s had her snack. What else can I do?” Damn, he hates feeling like an indentured servant.

“Umm…” Rebecca looks up from her stack of papers and nervously glances from desk to desk, from Chris to the whiteboard. “We can review the science fair planning guide. The first order of business is the setup. I’d like to separate each table by grade. Freshman. Sophomore. And so forth.”

Chris nods. “I got it,” he assures, helping himself to the binder titled ‘ _Science Fair_.’ “That way you can focus on grading those papers.”

Rebecca lets out a faint sigh of relief. “Thank you, Chris.”

* * *

Carlos is good with kids, Jill notices, and he’s got one hell of an arm.

He takes it easy on the youngsters for obvious reasons, but Jill insists that he doesn’t hold anything back with her. (“Okay, but you asked for it.”)

By the end of practice, Jill formally accepts the role of assistant coach – an official member of the Cubs little league team.

“All right, kids, I expect you to be nice to Jill,” Carlos announces in their team huddle. “She’s gonna be with us until the end of the season.”

 _Ummm… actually…_ Jill thinks.

But the kids are already attached, all goofy grins and enthused nods, and Jill immediately feels guilt wash over her like acid.

“We have a game this weekend,” Carlos continues. “So keep up the good work and let’s bring home some trophies! All in!”

Everyone stacks their hands in the center of the huddle, performs a chant Jill has yet to memorize, and _break!_

“Go Cubs!”

Carlos smiles and watches as the kiddos scamper off to meet their parents, waving farewell.

The experience leaves Jill conflicted. She waits until the bleachers are empty before voicing the beginnings of a potential dispute.

“Juice?” Carlos asks, revealing the leftover stash of juice boxes. He takes a seat on the bleachers and gestures for her to follow, patting the spot next to him.

“Sure,” Jill replies, sitting down.

“Apple or grape?”

“Apple.”

She takes a few sips, staring off into the vast expanse of the outfield.

“Carlos, I don’t think I’ll be available to assist for the entire season,” she admits. “I have to go back to work in three weeks.”

“So I’ve heard,” Carlos replies, feeling a little stung. “Suspended, right?”

Jill nearly chokes on her juice. “How… how did you know that?”

“I watch the news, occasionally,” Carlos says. “And your boss called to give me a heads up.”

“Oh,” is all Jill can manage.

“Will you at least think about it?” Carlos asks. “Even if you’re only available for one or two practices a week. I could use the help and the kids seem to like you.”

Jill’s hesitance is damning enough, but she can’t bring herself to say “no” to him. She’d probably lose sleep at night if she refused.

“Fine,” Jill relents. “I’ll think about it.” She keeps her doubts to herself, secretly hoping the conversation will end there.

Carlos finishes off the last of his juice box, and then obliges his nagging curiosity because, hell, he’s absolutely dying to know.

“Is it true that you sent that guy to the hospital?” he asks, amused when he should probably be concerned.

“Yup,” Jill answers, nary a hint of remorse in her voice. “Asshole deserved it.”

“I believe you,” Carlos says, chuckling.

Jill stays for one more juice box and heads home, thinking of Carlos’s stupid smile the entire drive.

* * *

Jill thinks Chris might be smitten.

“Didn’t know you had a thing for nerds,” Jill says one morning over coffee at Moon's Donuts. (No, not the one from the case Chris desperately wants to work on. This one’s their usual spot and, luckily, in a safer part of town.) “My last ex was a massive nerd. I definitely see the appeal.”

“The yoga instructor?” Chris asks, taking a chunk out of his glazed donut. “Sheva didn’t strike me as the nerdy type.”

“No, not her.” Jill shakes her head.

“Brad?” Chris guesses. “Please tell me it wasn’t Brad.”

Jill nods. “You should see his place. He’s got Star Trek posters on every wall. And he does the _best_ Captain Kirk impressions.”

“I’d rather not picture that.”

“Don’t judge. Who’s to say Rebecca doesn’t have her place all geeked out, too? She’s a science teacher for god’s sake.”

Chris simmers on that thought for a moment, imagining a few potential layouts of Rebecca’s residence. He envisions a bunch of houseplants (and she probably talks to them). Maybe she has a cat… or two. There was a _Gattaca_ poster in her classroom, so maybe she likes Sci-fi movies?

“I don’t know,” Chris says, peering down at the ripples in his coffee. “I still don’t know her all that well yet. I might not even be her type.”

“Then do something about it,” Jill supplies. “You’re a nice guy, Chris. Deep down, anyway. She’ll see that. You just have to show her.”

“I can’t just be nice,” Chris replies. “Anyone can be nice.”

“And yet there’s plenty of assholes out there.”

“Well, yeah but…” No rebuttal to that. Chris drums his fingers against the table, pensive – and then he’s suddenly hit with an idea, like shockwaves rushing through him with turbulent force. “Wait a sec. I know what to do. I gotta go. I’ll call you later, Jill!”

He bolts out of the shop before Jill can question his motives.

He’s left his donut.

She eats it.

* * *

“But Chris, we already have a Venus flytrap. You didn’t have to go through the trouble.”

Rebecca holds the new class pet in the palm of her hands, eyes full of intrigue.

“Good things come in pairs,” Chris says, like he was honored to fulfill the task. “Besides, Vera seemed lonely so now she has a friend.”

“They’re not exactly social creatures,” Rebecca informs. “But I appreciate the gesture.”

Chris flashes his pearly whites. _Mission success!_

“Does it have a name?” Rebecca asks, and Chris feels his brain short-circuit.

“Claire,” he says on impulse.

“Claire,” Rebecca repeats. “I love it!”

Chris rubs the back of his neck, and cringes. “That’s… my sister’s name,” he admits.

“You have a sister?” Rebecca pries, curious. “Awww, that’s nice of you to name the new class pet after her!”

 _Is it?_ Chris clears his throat. “I guess…?”

“Are you two pretty close?”

“Yeah. We were crazy as kids, but we’ve always been close.”

Rebecca softens at that, warmth blooming in her chest. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Me, too,” Chris says. “I think you’re sweet… is what I meant to say. I think it’s sweet how you’re interested in Venus flytraps.” Someone help this man.

But then her entire face becomes enflamed in crimson, and before Chris can say anything else she scurries off behind her desk and buries her face in more paperwork.

He awkwardly sweeps the room to distract himself.

* * *

Jill learns a few things about Carlos the next day.

He’s interested in a career in law enforcement, currently finishing up his training at the police academy. In the meantime, he also moonlights as a bartender at a pub on the southside of town to pay the bills.

“Would I get a discount on the drinks if I just so happen to show up?” Jill asks in the dugout before practice.

“Maybe,” Carlos replies.

Good enough for her.

So she drags Chris along with her to the pub later that night.

“You dolled yourself up for this,” Chris says in keen observation of her outfit and dark red lips. “Am I supposed to be your wingman for tonight or something?”

Jill’s immediately on the defense. “Can’t I just look good for myself?”

“Come on,” Chris eggs her on. “I know you better than that.”

They sit at the bar, waiting.

“Are you sure he’s working tonight?” Chris asks, checking the time on his watch. When he looks up, he sees the last thing he expected to go down here of all places.

His sister, Claire, and her boyfriend making out by the pool table.

It sets him off.

“Sit tight, Jill,” he says, his voice the only calm thing about him. “I’ll be right back.” He walks away, cracking his knuckles, and Jill cringes.

“Let her be,” Jill calls after him. “She’s not twelve. Jesus.”

She twirls back around in her stool and nearly topples over in shock.

“Thought I recognized that voice.” Finally. Carlos is here. About damn time! “Funny, I was just thinking about you.”

 _That_ catches her even more off guard. “You were? Should I be creeped out or flattered?”

Carlos smirks (that stupid smirk!) and reverses the question. “You’re the one who came to visit me at work. Should _I_ be creeped out or flattered?”

“Came for the booze,” Jill deflects. It’s a half-truth.

“Lots of places have booze,” Carlos says.

“Well I thought about trying someplace new,” Jill quickly amends. “Therapist recommended broadening my horizons and socializing… and such.”

Carlos sees no fault in that. “There’s plenty of people in tonight.” He nods behind her. “Gonna go mix and mingle?”

“Maybe.” But Jill’s running a little low on liquid courage. “I kinda need a drink first though.”

“Right,” Carlos agrees. “Apple juice, was it?”

Jill gives him the side-eye. “We’re not at little league practice, Carlos. No need to keep things G-rated.”

“Not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that,” he drawls. “But how does an AMF sound?”

“Like murder. I’ll have a rum and coke.”

“You got it.”

* * *

Elsewhere, Chris has given up trying to rein in his sister’s rebellious antics and is currently whooping her boyfriend’s ass in a fierce game of pool.

“So Leon,” he begins after potting two colored balls in the glorious aftermath of one hit, “How’d you and Claire meet?”

Leon dies a little after realizing Chris is but one strategic shot away from winning. “At the county fair last summer,” he answers. “We got stuck on the Ferris wheel together.”

“Really?” Chris laughs. “For how long?”

“Like thirty minutes.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Chris’s laughter fucks up his next shot. His grip on the pool cue falters and he pots the 8 ball.

He accepts the loss for what it is.

* * *

Jill mingles experimentally about the pub for a few minutes, and it’s about as much social torture as she can handle.

The night’s still young yet so far she’s been asked to join a couple threeways, she’s been heckled by several thirsty individuals looking to get laid, and some rando has shared his entire life story about his past struggles with drug addiction and how reading Spiderman comics, of all things, had changed his life.

She tiptoes back to her stool at the bar and buries her head in her hands.

“How’d it go?” Carlos asks, in spite of already knowing the answer. From the looks of it, she could use another drink. And maybe another after that. “Make any new friends?”

Jill looks up and meets his gaze, nursing the bridge of her nose. “’Fraid not.” She waits for another drink, and this time Carlos treats her to something fruity. “I have plenty of friends. I don’t really care for new ones.”

Carlos frowns. “Bummer.”

Jill realizes her words may have been misconstrued. “You’re an exception, obviously.” Fuck, that came out a little awkward. “I mean, I like you, I guess.”

Carlos’s trademark smile returns. “I like you, too.”

He walks away to tend to other customers.

Jill’s heart flutters.

She wants to strangle herself.

* * *

Chris has to take care of drunk Jill when it’s usually the other way around.

Claire and Leon have taken off. The bar’s announced last call. Chris figures that’s a good enough cue to head home.

His search turns up nothing particularly helpful, ambling through the crowd of people in exhaustion, but he’s tipped off by the bartender and ultimately finds her waiting in line for the bathrooms.

“I have to pee,” she tells him when he says it’s time to go.

“Hurry up,” Chris urges. “I gotta get up early and meet Rebecca at the school at 8am sharp.”

Jill quirks a brow. “Doesn’t she have class to teach?”

“Yes and she wants me there because tomorrow’s lesson plan is about forensic science.”

“You’re a cop, not a crime scene investigator.”

“She’s aware. I think she just wants me there to keep her company.”

Jill moves up in line, slumping against the wall with an all-knowing grin seared on her face.

“Making progress, I see,” she remarks. “Maybe this whole community service gig is doing you some good.”

When she’s finished gussying up in the bathroom mirror, she uses the small window of opportunity she has to chat with Carlos while Chris is busy messing around with the jukebox in the corner.

“Are you gonna be okay getting home?” Not even a hunk like Carlos Oliveira can ask that question without sounding like a worried mother.

“Yup,” Jill concurs. “I have a ride.” She points at Chris, who is still preoccupied with the music selection. _(“The music here sucks!”)_

“Oh,” Carlos mumbles, and Jill can detect a bizarre mix of disappointment and surprise in his voice. “Boyfriend?”

Jill turns away to hide her quivering lips, suppressing laughter. She feigns a cough and shakes her head. “No, just a friend. My partner, actually.”

“Buddy cops?” Carlos quips, reaching for a rag to wipe down the counters. “Nice.”

“Mmhmmm.” Jill contemplates other ways to drop the hint that she’s single. “I’m single.”

So much for subtlety.

Ehhh. She’s drunk. Her filter’s completely off.

“A catch like you?” Carlos plays along. “That’s hard to believe.”

Jill shrugs. “I don’t have the best luck when it comes to dating.”

“Dating isn’t about luck,” Carlos says, tossing the used rag into a large grey bin. “It’s about self-exploration and figuring out what you need in a relationship.”

“Can you be my new therapist, please?”

Carlos smiles, and puts his closing chores on hold to give her his undivided attention.

“Sure,” he says softly. He leans in closer, cupping her jaw under the warmth of his calloused palm. His thumb soothes over her cheek, and she closes her eyes as if lulled to sleep. “As your therapist, I advise you to go home and get some rest. We have practice tomorrow.”

Goddammit.

* * *

Chris strolls into Rebecca’s classroom promptly at 7:50am the next morning.

She’s a little frazzled, bouncing back and forth between her desk and the whiteboard, nearly spilling her coffee cup with every jostled movement.

“Good morning, Chris,” are the only words she can squeeze out while frantically pacing past him.

In preparation for the PowerPoint she struggles reaching for the string to pull the screen visor down, grumbling to herself in annoyance.

“I got it,” Chris offers, using his height to resolve the issue. He pulls the screen down with ease, purposely flexing his muscles as he does so.

Rebecca gulps and moves on to the next task – arranging hefty boxes of textbooks into an old storage case.

It proves to be a somewhat difficult task, but she’s got plenty enough strength to haul one at a time.

“I got it,” Chris offers once again. He stacks two, three, four boxes at once and neatly assembles them in the storage case, muscles bulging just as he’d intended.

Rebecca turns away to fan herself, internally chastising her primitive urges for ogling him while his back’s turned.

_Rats!_

“Um, thanks, Chris!” she blurts and retreats to her computer, collecting herself. She’s typing away, replying to an email to help ease her nerves. Her whole body feels tense, flaring in apprehension. She’s a little more stressed than usual this morning, Chris notes.

So he lends her a hand – two hands to be exact.

“I got it,” he says, moving in behind her. He gently places his hands on her shoulders, to which she initially shrivels up, but as soon as he caresses her upper back, massaging in deliberately slow circles, she practically dissolves into his touch.

She moans in appreciation, closing her eyes as if to savor the blissful sensation.

The rest of the school day goes smoothly for Rebecca.

And the tension in her shoulders is gone. Nice.

* * *

Jill takes charge at the next little league practice.

Carlos had called earlier to inform he’d be running a bit late, and while Jill’s confident in her athletic abilities, she’s unsure how to coach a wild bunch of nine-year old boys solo.

So she reverts to what she knows, remembering a few things instilled upon her from both the military and all those years playing premier fastpitch softball.

She doesn’t baby them. She keeps them in line. She trains them hard.

But she’s also supportive; invokes positive reinforcement and encourages teamwork as an essential to creating successful strategies play by play.

By the time Carlos does arrive, he wonders what military school he walked into.

“Jill,” he says as the little leaguers take a quick break to refuel on Gatorade. “Why do they look like they’ve been through the seventh circle of hell?”

“They’re training,” Jill replies, dismissive. “We’re cycling between drills for now. I started things off with relay throws. Then we did some infield plays, focusing on grounders. Next up is batting practice. Gotta work on teaching them proper swinging mechanics.”

Carlos blinks, although he can’t lie to himself. He’s kind of impressed. But… “Jill… they’re nine.”

“You want to win this Saturday, right?” There’s a spike in her tone, like she’s suspicious of where his true loyalties lie.

“Point taken.” Carlos reserves his judgment, but only momentarily. “Let’s see what they’ve learned so far then.” He’s gotta decide for himself.

And when he sees what’s become of his team it’s as if he’s witnessed nothing short of a miracle. They communicate more efficiently, they’re less intimidated by pop flys and line drives, and they swing their bats like they have vengeance on the mind.

It’s like she’s given them some sort of super soldier serum.

“Nope,” Jill says when Carlos asks if she possesses any supernatural abilities. “I only taught them what I know.”

But Carlos has always been weirdly superstitious. “No, I like my version better,” he says, defiant. “You’re superhuman.” No wait. “ _Supercop_.”

It’s her new nickname.

* * *

_She likes mochas_ , Chris remembers while standing in a mile-long line at Starbucks. (Typical Friday morning. Busy, busy, busy.)

But just to be sure, he calls her.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Rebecca, it’s Chris. You like mochas, right?”

“Um, yes. Why?”

“No reason. See you in ten minutes.”

Twenty minutes later (damn traffic), he walks into her classroom, mocha in one hand, black coffee in the other.

“Chris.” Rebecca smiles and it’s so obscenely sweet, it makes Chris’s teeth hurt. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” he interjects. “You’ve been working yourself to death sunup to sundown. You deserve a little appreciation for all that you do.”

Rebecca’s knees buckle under her desk, toes curling beneath her Crocs. “I’m just doing my job,” she says like it’s forced. “But thank you.”

She obliges her sugary cravings with a hefty gulp of her mocha, and traces of whipped cream cling to her upper lip.

Chris nearly doubles over in the seat across from her, desperately holding in a riotous fit of laughter.

Rebecca fails to compute. “What’s so funny?” The whipped cream mustache twitches, and Chris wonders if this is how he’ll go out. A ruptured spleen. A constricted airway. Has holding in laughter ever killed anyone?!

“Nothing,” he breathes out.

Rebecca doesn’t notice the cream mustache for another ten minutes.

Chris wheezes and it’s pure chaos.

* * *

“Wanna come to the game tomorrow?”

Jill has a reason for asking. Wait for it…

“I’m free in the afternoon,” Chris replies. “I have to help Rebecca with spring cleaning in the morning but we should be done by noon.”

Perfect.

“Cool, well the game’s at 5,” Jill says. “It’ll be my first game coaching, so it would mean a lot if you showed up.”

“I’m there,” Chris vows, and he’s fallen right into Jill’s web of scheming ploys.

“You should invite Rebecca,” Jill says, far too casually for the absence of an ulterior motive.

Maybe Carlos is right. Maybe Jill does possess supernatural abilities.

Whatever the case may be, her Jedi mind trick works.

“I _should_ invite Rebecca,” Chris agrees. He excuses himself to make the call.

Jill eavesdrops, and sneaks a peek of Chris’s little victory dance when he hangs up the phone.

She’s always been proud of her matchmaking skills.

* * *

Jill’s a little more anxious than she lets on.

It’s her first game coaching when she’s used to hitting, catching, and running bases. She’s behind the wire fence and calling out to the youngsters from the dugout when she’s more accustomed to the dirt on her shins and the green turf of the outfield beneath the soles of her feet.

“Eye on the ball, kid!”

The Cubs are up 3 to 2 by the third inning. The team looks good. No – _great_. (“Like a bunch of future hall-of-famers.”) All that hard work and discipline has indeed paid off, but Carlos puts too much of an emphasis on trivial things like _having fun_.

 _Winning is fun_ , Jill thinks.

Maybe her competitive spirit is a bit over the top, but it’s how she was raised. It’s how she’s accomplished everything in her life up to this point.

But it’s also a source of constant stress; a deep-seated fear that some part of her is inadequate.

It’s a hard truth to swallow, but perhaps she deserved to be suspended from the force. Putting aside the fact that Irons is an asshole, it’s not as if the repercussions were unwarranted. Revisiting the memory of that fateful day at the house - puppies squealing, people shouting, fists flying – sheds a whole new light on her previously skewed perspective.

What exactly is she trying to prove?

Dammit. This is the absolute worst time to have this kind of moral dilemma.

She snaps out of her introspection and looks to the stands. Chris waves and calls out her name. Rebecca’s seated cozily next to him, hotdog in her hand. They look cute together. She’ll have to tell him.

“Three innings down, three more to go,” Carlos announces as he meets her in the dugout, eyes drifting to the scoreboard. “We’re up by two now. Team’s looking good.”

She says nothing, and it puzzles him.

“Hey,” he says, nudging her arm. “You’re doing great, champ. The first game jitters will wear off. Here, have an apple juice.”

Jill attempts a half-smile of gratitude, and accepts the juice box.

She takes a few quiet sips, still feeling slightly despondent.

The Cubs hit a homerun and the stands erupt in cheers. Carlos hoots and hollers with the boys in the dugout, high-fives all around.

Jill sighs.

* * *

They don’t win, but they don’t lose either.

The game ends in a draw, even after going into a couple extra innings of overtime. The scoreboard reads 8 to 8, and the umpire blows the whistle. He calls it.

Jill’s not exactly thrilled, but she’s not as devastated as she imagines she would be if they’d had lost. She finds herself on autopilot as the team floods into the dugout, bombarding her with high-fives and celebratory hoots. It cheers her up a little, but her mind’s still reeling from thoughts about work and whether or not she’s really learning anything from this whole experience.

“Good job, boys,” she says, mindful of her demeanor so as not to sully her praise with contrived effort. “You all did great tonight.”

One of the kiddos surprises her with a hug, (“Thanks, Coach Jill!”) and she needs a moment to recover.

She’s not used to hugs. She’d only need one hand to count how many times her own father had hugged her when she was a child.

But they’re nice, she decides. Gives her warm and fuzzy feelings.

Carlos assembles one last team huddle by the parking lot before calling it a night, hands stacked in the center, their chants echoing in the bustling air of the rec fields. Then they’re off, sprinting into the arms of their parents and hauled away in minivans. Some stick around to chat and loot the treasure trove of snacks stashed away in Carlos’s sports bag.

As Jill waits for Chris and Rebecca to clear out from the bleachers to bid them goodnight, Carlos approaches from behind, purposely brushing his arm against hers.

“Why the long face?” he asks without preamble. “You seem a little down.”

Jill doesn’t have the energy to deflect, so she concedes the complicated truth. “We were so close,” she says. “We shoulda won.”

Carlos gives her a sympathetic look. “You always so hard on yourself?” And the question is digging deeper than just one little league game.

“I have certain expectations of myself,” she clarifies, keeping it brief.

“Some things are out of your control,” Carlos says, and now they both know they’re not really talking about baseball. “It’s okay to fall short of those expectations sometimes. Just means you’re human.”

“Yeah, well I almost lost my job,” Jill scoffs, the words bitter on her tongue.

“But you didn’t. Your mistakes don’t define you,” Carlos affirms. “You’re more than just your badge, you know.”

Jill swallows down the massive lump in her throat.

“You’re a good cop, Jill. But you’re also a good friend and a good coach.” To emphasize his point, Carlos gestures towards a small family in the distance. The young boy, the team pitcher, laughs as his father hoists him up, his mother snapping pictures with her camera.

“You see that?” Carlos continues, turning back to face her. “That’s all thanks to you.”

Jill tilts her head questioningly, not quite following.

“I’ve been coaching this team since they were kindergartners,” Carlos says. “Last season we were on a crazy losing streak. Only won two games.” He chuckles, and it’s obviously under the guise of slight humiliation. “But having you around has really helped them. They’re practically fearless. It’s like you’ve given us all hope.”

Jill opens her mouth to protest, but stops when the family comes into view again. They look so happy – and to think she had any part in that at all is enough to restore some semblance of faith in herself.

Okay, so winning isn’t everything, she thinks. And having an unhealthy obsession with perfection and control is detrimental to the human condition. It’s a principle that will take some getting used to, but she’s starting to understand. Still learning to redefine how she measures her own self-worth.

And it feels like a burden’s been lifted.

* * *

After the game, Chris drives Rebecca home, pulls the car curbside to her townhouse, and offers to walk her up.

Chris never feels nervous around women. Scratch that. Chris never feels nervous.

Yet something about spending time with Rebecca outside of the classroom setting has his thoughts fixated on trying to impress her with traditional courtship gestures, like a harsh voice barking orders in the back of his mind. (How’s he doing so far? He could use some feedback.)

He can handle pressure, but he’s no psychic.

Seems he’s not alone in feeling conflicted. Rebecca had remained mostly quiet on the ride home, her hands fidgeting with the keys to her place.

She nods her head in agreement, allowing him to accompany her to the front door. To his surprise, she makes the next move, (innocent as it is) and links their arms together.

Chris doesn’t mind taking things slow, if that’s what she wants. Rebecca’s worth it.

“Can you come in a little early Monday morning?” she asks when they reach the front doorstep.

“Yeah, of course,” Chris replies, dutifully. Rebecca beams in return and says goodnight.

Chris is halfway to his car when he hears her finally insert the key into the lock.

He stops.

He goes for it.

“Hey, Rebecca,” he calls out, and she whips her head back around, lips parted in confusion.

“Yes?” she asks.

Chris stands there awkwardly on her front lawn, but he commits. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

It’s a date.

* * *

“So where are you taking her?”

“Some seafood place by the pier. Barry recommended it.”

“No wonder you’re dressed to the nines. That place is super fancy.”

“Think I’m overdoing it, Jill? Be honest.”

“With the restaurant? No. With that tie? Kind of.”

“Dammit. Okay, I’ll lose the tie.”

“Much better. You look good in button-down shirts, by the way.”

“Well it’s certainly nice to wear something other than our uniforms for once. Forgot I even had this shirt.”

“You’re telling me. Took a lot of digging but I found this sweater in the back of my closet. Has a swanky vintage appeal to it, don’t you think?”

“I think that’s what the back of closets are for.”

* * *

Jill meets up with Claire at the movies later that night.

“So your brother’s got a hot date this evening,” Jill says after they’ve picked their seats in the auditorium. “That’s why he couldn’t make it.”

“What?!” Claire can’t believe what she’s hearing. “He didn’t tell me anything!”

“Yeah, he’s got a thing for the biology teacher he’s helping out,” Jill replies, shoving a handful of popcorn into her mouth. They have time to chat. The previews aren’t even on yet.

“For the science fair?” Claire recalls, and Jill nods in the affirmative. “Wow. He hasn’t been out on a date in… months. What’s she like? Have you met her yet?”

“Briefly,” Jill says. “Seems like a nice girl. Cute. Kinda shy, but I can see her having a wild side.”

Claire takes a chug from their shared soda. Maybe getting an extra-large Coke wasn’t the best idea for a two-and-a-half-hour movie, but they’re splitting it. Saves money that way.

“You’ll like her,” Jill concludes. “She’s a good fit for Chris. They complement one another. She’s the brains in the relationship and he’s got enough brawn for the both of them. Their kids will be beefy _and_ smart. Good combo.”

Claire laughs. “You’re thinking too far ahead for me. I’m not quite ready to be an aunt.” She _could_ be though. Damn baby fever. “All I want is for him to be happy. He deserves to be in a relationship based on mutual trust and respect.”

That’s always been his problem. Most of his relationships fail because they’re one-sided. Chris is a giver, and he’s dealt with his fair share of takers.

“I won’t let his heart get broken again,” Jill quips, though she’s partly serious. God knows he’s been there for her after some nasty breakups.

The lights in the auditorium dim, and Claire tries to squeeze one last bit of gossip out of her.

“Soooooo,” she hums, “you and that bartender?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Chris said he was the little league coach, too.”

If there was a question anywhere in that statement, Jill missed it. “Uh huh.”

“Are you two… you know…?” Claire wants details without outright asking for them.

Jill reflexively slumps further into her seat, heat pooling between her legs. “No, he’s not like that,” she replies, evasive. “Hell, he’s not like anybody.”

Someone from behind shushes them.

They zip their lips.

* * *

The date starts at the fancy seafood restaurant.

How it ends up at Rebecca’s townhouse, cookies baking in the oven and a crime drama on TV, Chris may never know.

They’re sitting knee-to-knee on the couch in her living room, sipping on freshly brewed tea while waiting for the next batch of tollhouse cookies. Chris absorbs his surroundings, eyes trailing from floor to ceiling, impressed with how neat and organized she is. A place for everything and everything in its place.

No cats, though. That’s the one thing he got wrong.

They’re only half-watching the show now, and when Chris spies the photo album on her coffee table he almost forgets the TV’s even on. He flips through it, swarmed with relics from Rebecca’s past. Elementary school. (She was a cute kid.) Tennis team photo. (Nice… skirt.) College graduation. (Honor student, obviously.) A trip to New Zealand. (Internship?) Her hair used to be longer. (Looks good at any length. Not a lot of people can pull that off.)

“That was my first recital,” Rebecca says when he comes across a picture of her playing piano. “I was eight and absolutely terrified.”

Chris points out her ear-to-ear grin in the photo. “You don’t _look_ so terrified,” he says, poking a little fun. “Do you still play?”

Rebecca nods. “Occasionally, but I’m no Mozart.”

Chris resumes flipping through the album. “I play the guitar. It’s a hobby I picked up in the Air Force,” he says. “We should play together sometime.”

“You’ll have to be patient with me,” Rebecca deadpans. “I’m a little rusty.”

“Patience is my middle name,” Christopher James Redfield assures, sharing similar sentiments regarding his own musical abilities.

He pauses at a photo of Rebecca in a lab coat and goggles, one hand holding a beaker, the other offering a thumbs up. The caption below reads ‘ _first day at RCHS_ ’.

“What made you wanna be a biology teacher?” he asks, indulging in another sip of tea.

Rebecca visibly glows. “I’ve always been passionate about science,” she replies. “And I believe in public service. I want to pass on all my knowledge to the next generation, and the generation after that.”

The timer on the oven goes off, and Rebecca excuses herself. She returns with a plate of piping hot chocolate chip cookies, advising they wait a couple more minutes for them to cool down.

“What made you want to be a police officer?” she asks when she’s back on the couch. She’s sitting a little closer this time, Chris notices.

He takes a moment to reflect. “I was recruited after serving five years in the military,” he replies. “But my dream was to be a pilot. Like in _Top Gun_.” He sets her photo album back on the coffee table, reaching for his cup of tea. “I thought I could still make a difference in joining the force, but…” He trails off, wondering how much information is _too_ much. “It has its ups and downs.” He’ll play it safe and remain vague with the details.

Rebecca nods in understanding. “Is that why you needed a break?” she asks, and Chris realizes she knows next to nothing about his suspension.

He grabs a cookie before reliving the whole drama. “Actually, there’s something I should probably tell you,” he begins, swallowing both his cookie and his pride, “My partner and I were suspended for three weeks.”

Rebecca frowns, brows furrowing. “What for?”

Chris spills his guts. An arrest gone bad, he summarizes. He recounts getting punched in the face, Jill beating the crap outta the assailant, saving the orphaned puppies from being burned alive, failing his psych eval, and then being forced into community service.

But much to his surprise, Rebecca offers sympathy as opposed to condemnation.

“I’m not one to judge,” she says quietly. “But given the alternative, I think what you did was justifiable.”

“Was it the right thing though?” Chris asks, uncertainty looming over him.

Rebecca munches away on another cookie, contemplating. “Right or wrong. I can’t decide that for you, Chris,” she says, still chewing. “But here’s how I see it. If you hadn’t made that call, who knows what would’ve happened to those puppies. Who knows what would’ve happened to your partner.” She averts her gaze, head tipped. “And who knows if we would’ve ever met.”

When she puts it that way, Chris thinks, he’s glad Jill kicked that guy’s ass.

Okay, okay, so he probably shouldn’t condone their actions but if that’s the only way he and Rebecca would’ve crossed paths then so be it. Gotta find some silver lining in all this.

“So you’re saying everything happens for a reason,” Chris clarifies, making sense of it all.

Rebecca nods, yawning. “I’d like to think so.” She curls up into a ball in his lap, and he instinctively wraps his arms around her.

It doesn’t take her long to fall asleep in his warm bundle of cuddles, her snores like that of a purring kitten.

Chris succumbs to sleep shortly after, lulled by the ambient noise of the TV’s low volume and her gentle breathing against him.

* * *

Jill and Chris are expected to return to work in one week.

Irons calls Chris while he’s at Moon's Donuts with Jill, interrupting their usual morning routine. (She’s been dying to hear about his date, but of course Chief Irons just _has_ to kill the mood…)

Chris puts him on speaker.

“The assault and battery charges against you and Miss Valentine have been dropped,” he says, voice gruff over the shitty reception.

“What made him change his mind?” Chris asks, though he doesn’t really care. Jill’s the one who wants to know.

“Check your email,” Irons replies, then promptly hangs up.

At Jill’s apartment, she whips out her laptop and clicks on the link attached to the email in question, Chris right behind her.

It’s a video of the altercation; the incident that got them suspended in the first place. The footage is from Chris’s body cam, showing everything – from the helpless puppies to Jill and her ninja moves – and all the comments below seem to pour out a wealth of support for their morally ambiguous act of heroism.

Turns out running dogfights and threatening to kill innocent animals will immediately vilify you.

(It’s amazing how people can get over assault on other people, but on animals?! Bring out the fucking pitchforks!)

But Jill and Chris still have yet to solve one mystery.

“How’d this video get out?” Chris asks. “I thought the goddamn attorney’s office had the only-” He stops, the realization dawning on him. “You think Barry leaked it?”

“Oh, Barry definitely leaked it.” 

* * *

Jill has no clue how widespread the video is online, smothering all sorts of news outlets and social media platforms with its beguiling presence.

At least, not until later that afternoon when one of the Cubs sprints onto the field at the start of practice, cell phone in his hand.

“Look what I found!” he shrieks, holding it out for the entire team and Carlos to see. “It’s Coach Jill kicking some guy’s butt!”

And there she is, clad in her police uniform, swarms of punches and roundhouse kicks flashing on screen.

Carlos would love nothing more than to rewind and watch Jill’s moves over and over again, but now is neither the time nor the place to encourage vigilante justice. He’s here to set an example, resigned to things like ethics and morals. And baseball.

“Nick, practice is about to start,” Carlos interjects, composing himself. “Give the phone back to your mom and hustle.” He whistles at the team to ready themselves in proper formation, to which they grunt and groan in disappointment.

As the youngsters reluctantly obey his instruction, Carlos seizes his opportunity to mess with Jill like the urge is suffocating him.

“Wanna show me those moves later?” he whispers, scandalously. He can’t help it. Seeing Jill beat the crap out of an animal abuser got him all sorts of hot and bothered.

“Don’t they teach you hand-to-hand combat at the academy?” Jill fires back, glaring at him with a certain intensity in her eyes that he’d expect would be the last thing one would see before being knocked out cold.

Carlos huffs. “It’s nothing like what I just watched,” he says, like he’s been deprived. “We should train together some time.”

Which is how Carlos ends up pinned against the mat of a sparring ring the next day, flat on his back with Jill’s legs straddling his torso.

She holds him in that position, face flushed, coated in a light sheen of sweat, panting.

“You’re pulling your punches,” she finally says, voice gruff. “Don’t. It’s insulting.”

Okay. She asked for it.

Carlos grips her thighs, rough and deliberate, counters her knee-lock and flips her over, reversing their positions. He secures his tight grasp on her wrists and restrains her legs from any foiled attempt to wriggle herself free, their hips aligned.

She’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes locked with his.

An imperceptible trembling of his muscles runs down from his shoulders to his hands, loosening his grip on her. He’s given her a few openings for retaliation.

She takes none of them.

“You’re still holding back,” she whispers, biting her lip. “Don’t.” The movement draws his attention to her mouth, and it’s enough for him to take the hint.

It’s unclear who kisses who first.

Jill only hopes it won’t be their last.

* * *

It takes Chris and Rebecca a few hours to set up for the science fair.

The school gymnasium has gone through quite the transformation by the time they’re finished, accommodating the swarm of students and parents with all the bells and whistles of Rebecca’s keen planning. Tabletops are lined with colorful cardboard displays, each booth separated by visors on both sides with ample room for presentation.

Chris had proposed a snack booth, offering refreshments for any attendees whose sole motivation for going to these kind of events was the possibility of munching on something salty.

It proves to be a hit – especially with the dads, Rebecca notes.

Chris moseys on casually through the aisles, listening to students render brief synopses of their respective projects. There are two types of students, he deduces.

Students who, like Rebecca, are passionate about science and express genuine interest in their research. And then there’s students who just need the credits to graduate.

That’s not to say the latter group’s projects are any less impressive – or entertaining, for that matter.

“This one’s my favorite,” Chris says when Rebecca finds him, having just finished deliberating with her fellow judges over who’s won best in show. “Who would’ve thought that a gerbil’s speed can be affected by their diet?”

He watches in amazement as the test subject in question (a cute little gerbil named Albert) sprints on his wheel with remarkable focus, tiny paws peddling furiously. The proud owner of both the gerbil and the project mouths a polite “thank you” and shyly turns around to feed Albert.

After Rebecca commends her student for sharing the results (and providing such detailed graphs of their data), she walks Chris away and lets him in on a little secret.

“The gerbil project wins second place,” she whispers once they’re safely out of earshot.

“What?!” Chris hasn’t been this offended since his suspension. “Who won first place?”

“The digital pinhole camera.”

Moment of silence.

“That poor gerbil got robbed.”

* * *

The gerbil and its blue ribbon are among the last to leave to the gymnasium.

Chris watches as students file out, taking their projects home with them, some a bit more rushed than others. He’s left alone with Rebecca to clean up, which consists of menial tasks like putting away the foldable tables and chairs, tossing the leftover snacks, and tearing down the streamers strung along the walls.

After storing the last of the tables away, Chris finds Rebecca by the exit doors. She’s browsing through the science fair program one last time before shoving it into her binder, satisfied. Another one for the books.

She suggests they celebrate with frozen yogurt. Her treat.

Chris initially feels out of place staring at the self-service dispensers and colorful array of fruit and other toppings, but Rebecca coaxes him to test the waters and try a few samples.

He opts for vanilla chocolate swirl, tops it with the simple combination of chopped banana bits and blueberries.

Rebecca, on the other hand, goes absolutely feral with her creation. It’s a mountain of sprinkles and crushed candies over cherry flavored yogurt. Chris fears he’ll get diabetes just by looking at it.

In spite of how cheery she’d been when they waltzed into the shop, Rebecca goes radio silent in their booth, licking her spoon with somberness glazing her eyes.

“So I guess that’s it then,” she blurts, and Chris has no idea what she means. “Now that the science fair’s over and your suspension’s almost up, I won’t see you for a while.”

_Not so fast…_

Chris reaches for her hand, brushing over her knuckles with his thumb.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he says. “We’ll work something out.”

Rebecca perks her head up, hopeful. “Like what?”

Chris smiles. It’s been on his mind for a while now.

* * *

It should be Jill’s last day coaching the team.

But it’s not.

It wouldn’t feel right to leave them after she’s finally memorized the team chant. After their first win of the season turns out to be a massive blowout. Or after her team jersey has come in; her nickname in bold print on the back. _Supercop_.

But her fate’s sealed when Carlos asks her to stay.

They’re back where they started, sitting on the bleachers, sharing an apple juice. She rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes.

“Please don’t go,” he says, like the words are fragile.

Jill chuckles. “I like that you’re a softie at heart,” she admits.

“Being vulnerable is my last resort to get you to stay.” Carlos sighs. “I’ve run out of ways to seduce you.”

Jill lifts her head up to look at him and smirks. “No you haven’t,” she deadpans. “But since you asked _so_ nicely… I guess I can stick around.” That earns an instant kiss on the cheek.

“I know I probably shouldn’t say this,” Carlos mumbles, lips grazing her ear, “but I’m glad you got suspended.”

He’s not alone in feeling that way.

“That makes two of us.”

* * *

“Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Jill and Chris regard one another closely, examining each other from top to bottom. Uniforms look good. Posture’s rigidly straight. Chins up. They nod in tandem and turn to face the main entrance of the police station.

This is it. Today’s the day they return to work.

Neither expect a party to celebrate their arrival, but someone’s tied a couple balloons to their desks with little notecards reading ‘ _welcome back_ ,’ followed by a winky face.

(Barry’s not as slick as he thinks he is.)

They report to Chief Irons’ office first thing, and he tosses them their badges like he’d been forced at gunpoint to do so.

“Your weapons will be given back to you before you head out for patrol,” he says like his day’s been ruined by their presence alone. “Keys to your lockers are at your desks. You have psych evals tomorrow morning. _And_ I want a full report on your community service ventures turned into your superiors by the end of the week.”

 _You just made that last part up_ , Chris thinks to himself. “Yes, sir,” he says instead.

Jill only nods in acknowledgement.

“Now get out. You two are giving me a headache just standing there.”

They share a fist bump after the door’s closed behind them.

* * *

At the end of their shift, they’re equal parts exhausted and relieved.

“I can’t believe they haven’t solved the Moon's Donuts case yet,” Chris says as they walk down the front steps of the main entrance. “We got our work cut out for us.”

Jill shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket, slowing her pace down. She stops at the fountain by the main plaza, staring at the falling water with a tender kind of calmness settled on her face.

Chris halts his trajectory with clumsy reverence to the pavement, catching himself from tripping over his own feet after realizing Jill is elsewhere with her thoughts. He quickly joins her side by the fountain, concerned.

He doesn’t have to ask. She’s rather forthcoming on her own.

“I never had the chance to apologize to you, Chris,” she says. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. If it hadn’t been for me acting so brashly, you wouldn’t have gotten suspended.”

Chris shakes his head, places his hand on her shoulder. “There’s no need to apologize,” he insists. “Besides, I’m not sorry for what happened.”

Jill figures he’d say something like that only to cheer her up, but the look on his face suggests it’s deeper than that. _Much_ deeper.

“You’ve always had my back,” Chris says. “There’s no one else I’d rather have for a partner.”

Simple as that.

And it’s what she needed to hear most.

* * *

They go their separate ways outside of HQ.

Man, it feels good to be back. Back to their old routine. With a few twists…

“Wish me luck,” Chris tuts, jingling his car keys. “I’m meeting up with Rebecca at her place for movie night.” He grins. “Or as the kids would say, _Netflix and chill_.”

Jill sighs at length. “Got all your date nights planned out?” she quips. _Nerds_.

“Some,” Chris replies. “We’re working on a routine, but I might surprise her every now and then just to mix things up.” He catches movement in his peripherals and looks up behind Jill, initially caught off guard. False alarm. “Speaking of surprises…” He nods ahead, prompting Jill to follow his line of sight.

She too is caught off guard when she turns around, but she’s immediately flooded with relief (and all those damn warm and fuzzy feelings) at the familiar face in their midst.

Carlos is waiting for her, leaning casually against his car, bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Ah, young love,” Chris says, whistling. “Later, Jill.” He offers a parting wave and heads down the street, disappearing from view.

Jill rolls her eyes, can’t help the twitch of her lips from smiling.

It’s the worst kind of torture keeping her hands to herself when she approaches Carlos, stopping just short of arm’s length away from him. His hair looks nice the way he’s styled it. Looks so soft…

“Hey, Coach,” she says, wondering what’s on his mind. She gives his car a once over, admiring its vintage body style. She’s always liked Camaros. “Nice ride.”

Carlos is very much aware, but he plays it off with modesty. “Wait ‘til you’re inside.” He opens the door for her, polite and inviting, then holds out the flowers. “These are for you, by the way.”

Jill receives the bouquet with care, stems speckled with dew. “You mean you didn’t just buy flowers for yourself?” she quips, breathing in their sweet, rosy scent. “They’re lovely.”

“Actually,” Carlos begins, “They’re from the team. The boys wanted to do something nice for you.”

Jill warms at that, flowers clutched against her chest.

The bouquet lays gently in her lap after she hops into the passenger seat, her fingers caressing soft petals. Carlos buckles his seatbelt, inserts the key into the ignition and the engine purrs to life. He leaves the car in park for a moment, hand on the radio dial, scanning through multiple stations.

“Leave it there,” Jill says when Def Leppard’s hit _Animal_ comes on, stretching her legs on the dash. Hmmm. Comfy. Now she’s ready to cruise along.

Carlos nods to the beat of the music, and moves his hand back to the wheel.

“Where to?” Jill asks, eager to feel the wind on her face.

Carlos smiles, and keeps her in suspense. “You’ll see, Supercop.”

He steps on the gas, their hands connected above the center console, and they drive off into the night, lights whirring past in a blur.

**Author's Note:**

> [ayyyyyyy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6C0IzCO074)
> 
> [tumblr](https://pieck-aboo.tumblr.com/)


End file.
